


No Evil but Love

by bgd_thrifty



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Death, Gen, M/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-03
Updated: 2012-07-03
Packaged: 2017-11-09 01:56:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/449976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bgd_thrifty/pseuds/bgd_thrifty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Murder is born of love, and love attains the greatest intensity in murder'. – Octave Mirbeau<br/>A story in two parts. Harry could never have imagined losing so much in such a short amount of time. He could also never have imagined sharing his pain with Draco Malfoy. But so it was and so it is. When choosing between what is right and what is easy, sometimes it's difficult to know the difference.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Evil but Love

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the hd_canon_fest with the prompt words pain, Thestral and night. I asked for a dark prompt, I received one and had a great time trying to fulfill it. I recommend listening to Sleep by My Chemical Romance as it heavily influenced the direction this tale took. Thanks muchly to melusinahp for helping me so wonderfully to pull the whole thing together.

Part One.  
  
  
“Dad! Dad! Can you see them?” Albus asked. His voice cracked once in the middle of the sentence but Harry refrained from commenting. Mentioning any, however casually, of the effects puberty had on Albus was guaranteed to put him in a simmering sulk that could last for days. Despite this, Harry couldn't completely suppress his laughter. Albus was practically bouncing up and down trying to see over the heads of people to spot his siblings. As a father, it was heartening for Harry to see.  
  
The arguments that had erupted in their house over Lily and James and not Albus being on the Quidditch team despite Lily 'only being in second year!' had driven both him and Ginny to distraction. He could still hear the ringing in his ears from the constant banging of doors. Harry turned his head to look at his wife beside him. Ginny smiled, squeezing his hand softly, and a warm burst of feelings blossomed in Harry's throat. He was not embarrassed to admit that he was proud of his family. Yes, they argued sometimes, and yes, they drove him halfway to distraction a lot of the time, but he wouldn't change his lot.  
  
“James or Lily? You're the one with the Omnioculars. I've only got these,” Harry said, tapping his glasses. Albus flushed.  
  
“'Dunno how to get it to slow down. And they're moving too fast, so...” he trailed off and looked beseechingly at his father. Harry sighed the long-suffering sigh of a parent and held out his free hand. He could feel the shaking of Ginny's shoulder next to him as she laughed silently. Well then, she could sort out whatever ridiculous request one of their offspring had next time.  
  
“Give it over, then. You're lucky they haven't started playing yet.” He didn't need the Omnioculars to see that the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff teams were still showing off their display formations, something that Harry was sure hadn't done back in his day. A lot of things had changed in the world since he was a Hogwarts student. He fiddled with the knobs and threw the contraption back to his son, wincing when Albus fumbled the catch. There was a reason for Albus not being a Chaser like his siblings as painful as it had been to explain.  
  
Ginny hadn't bothered; said Albus needed to 'get over it', but Harry had left his own house-affiliated items at home in order to try and remain impartial. He knew that Albus got sensitive about it sometimes. A gust of wind blew past them, and Albus tightened his black and yellow house scarf around his neck. Harry moved closer to Albus, pulling Ginny along with him, and put an arm around his son's shoulder. He might be growing up, but Harry knew that Albus was still his little boy when he snuggled into his dad's heavy cloak.  
  
“Oi, Albus Severus!” Harry heard exclaimed just as the Gryffindors switched positions with the Hufflepuffs. He turned his head quickly towards the source of the voice before letting it drop onto Ginny's shoulder as he saw who was coming towards them. He should have known without looking. There was only one person in the world outside their family that called his son by his full name. Albus wriggled out from under his arm and before Harry could caution him to mind the disgruntled people surrounding them, who looked none-too-pleased at being shoved out of the way by a fifteen year old, Albus had dashed off.  
  
“Malfoys at three o'clock,” he murmured into Ginny's robes, angling his neck so his voice would reach her ear over the sounds of the crowd. She exhaled and a small scowl flitted across her face before it smoothed out again. The house system and the sorting of children into different (and in some cases, the same) houses caused certain families to interact that were never meant to do so.  
  
“Potters.” Harry raised his head slowly and tried to school his expression into the same carefully blank and impassive one Draco Malfoy was sporting. The only way they could be around each other was for them to act as though they'd never met. The war had been finished for over two decades but Harry wasn't friends with any of the ex-Slytherins from their year. Time could not heal all wounds. If he ever had to see Pansy Parkinson again, he'd punch her.  
  
“Malfoy. Astoria.” He managed to scrounge up a weak smile for Astoria at least, although he was sure it looked quite insincere. Ginny's scowl took up residence once again on her face. There had been rumours of Astoria making nasty comments about their children's blood status. Harry wasn't surprised – trust Malfoy to marry someone as bigoted as himself. He must have learnt nothing from being on the wrong side of the war.  
  
They stood there in silence. Neither couple had much to say to the other. Yes, Harry tried to turn the other cheek and all that (or at least pretended to in front of Hermione) but Malfoy was such an irredeemable arsehole when he wasn't falling to pieces trying to save his family that Harry couldn't even bear to look at the pointy git for very long.  
  
“Uh, me n' Scorp are going to go over there with the rest of the Huffs for a mo'.” Harry's trained Auror vision didn't miss Malfoy's flinch as his son spoke. Was it that a dirty half-blood was friends with his son; was speaking in his presence? “We'll be back in a sec, just need to get a banner-”  
  
“-or two,” Scorpius broke in. “It's rather dull over here with the families. Needs something to spice it up,” he said, poking Albus and grinning. Harry could not even begin to understand their relationship. Carbon copies of their fathers, it stood to reason that they would continue the feud. Harry, although he acknowledged Scorpius was a nice enough child, was sure the boy must have been indoctrinated with the same bollocks as Malfoy and he didn't really want his son hanging around someone like that. But their friendship had endured for the four years they'd been at Hogwarts thus far, and Ginny would only allow him to interfere to a certain extent in their children's lives.  
  
“Saw you flinch, Malfoy. What, still can't stomach that your son is friends with mine?” Ginny pinched him, but with her gloves on it had little effect. It was childish, but he didn't get the opportunity to bicker with people very often in his job – doing so was likely to cause national disaster – and Malfoy always made his hackles rise.  
  
“You say this every time, Potter and believe me, I still don't care.” He pretended to be aloof, but Harry could see Malfoy's jaw flexing through the thin skin of his cheek as he ground his teeth.  
  
“Is that so? Your face tells me otherwise,” Harry scoffed. Malfoy's eyes flashed and his aloof attitude blew away like the strong wind. A part of Harry was deeply satisfied. What other way was there to quickly make his day than to fight with an old school 'friend'? He'd pay for it when they got home. Ginny had gone rigid next to him, and she gripped his hand more tightly than she had before.  
  
“Perhaps there would be no issue if your son could call mine by his full and proper name as mine does yours!” Malfoy hissed. Harry blinked. That was what the issue was about?  
  
“Really, Malfoy. I'd think that you should be grateful your son has any friends at all, what with having you looming over his shoulder like a starved Dementor.” Malfoy opened his mouth slowly and closed it. Harry noticed that he was breathing heavily. The victory felt hollow: Malfoy had always been pathetic and Harry didn't need to sink to his level. It looked as if the Malfoys were about to cut their losses and move away when their sons came hurrying back. The boys looked as if they'd taken as little time as possible in returning and Harry felt ashamed that he'd managed to start an altercation in the few minutes they'd been away.  
  
The Malfoys scurried away with little fanfare, although Scorpius tried to stay attached to Albus now that he had found him. Malfoy looked as though he would say something, but appeared to change his mind at the last moment. _'Of course he bloody would,'_ Harry thought nastily. _'Brilliant at not following through with things, aren't you Malfoy?'_ They all remembered the events on the tower in their sixth year. It was Astoria who pulled her son away. Harry fancied that her arm avoided the Hufflepuff memorabilia he was carrying. Bloody Slytherins.  
  
It was as if Albus could read his mind. It wasn't often that Albus was disappointed in him, but it always made Harry feel an inch tall.  
  
“Dad. When I was in first year, you said not to be so stressed about maybe getting into Slytherin 'cause they weren't all bad. How come you're so awful to Scorp's parents then? 'Specially when you named me after a Slytherin.”  
  
“Yes, you _did_ say that. Didn't you, Harry?” Ginny sounded furious. What part she was most angry about: his behaviour or having to put up with the Malfoys at all, he didn't know, but what he did know was that he should have kept his runaway mouth shut.  
  
“I'm sorry, Al. You know that Mr Malfoy and I do not particularly... get on.”  
  
“Well you should. 'Cause me and Scorp are best friends and you lot are ruining it to be honest.” It was a good thing the crowd was so loud. The Malfoys were only a few rows behind them in the stands and Harry would be more than embarrassed if they overheard. Grudgingly, Albus accepted Harry's apologies and assurances that he would try harder next time.  
  
The game was well underway when Harry began to feel a bit hot. It was going well and although Harry tried not to cheer too much for Lily and James with Albus sitting right next to him, he couldn't help but feel proud at their synchronisation with the other Gryffindor chaser as they scored goal after goal against his other son's house. It was getting to the stage where not even catching the Snitch would win Hufflepuff the game. Their Beaters were doing admirably, but there was only so much you could do when your Chasers and Keeper were completely useless and the Seeker was waiting for a turnabout in fortunes.  
  
Harry fanned at the back of his neck but leapt up when he realised the prickling heat was due to quickly spreading flames. He ripped off his cloak and cast a spell to douse the flames. Before he put them out, Harry noticed their conspicuous green colour and lo and behold, when Harry looked up Malfoy was looking right at him; smirking.  
  
Harry shoved past the same people who had been disturbed by his son and his son's friend. They could watch the match back on their bloody Omnioculars if they felt they'd missed anything pivotal. It was _school_ Quidditch. Parents glared at him for obstructing the view of their precious children but he doubted they'd take it up with him. He was the Head of the Auror Office and that held a lot of sway. It was a huge step up for the lonely child he had been and he revelled in it.  
  
“Malfoy, what the hell do you think you're playing at? Setting people's robes alight? I would have thought you'd had enough of fire back at school.” Malfoy's grin twisted into an ugly shape.  
  
“Potter,” Malfoy said, feigning boredom. Harry could see the vicious glint in his eye. “I have absolutely no idea what you're blathering on about.”  
  
“Bullshit, Malfoy. I know it was you!”  
  
“I have better things to be doing than setting the 'Saviour's' robes on fire.” Harry could hear the mocking in Malfoy's voice and it convinced him that he was correct. A Slytherin was a snake for life.  
  
He wasn't sure what made him snap. Perhaps it was seeing Astoria sitting there, expressionless. Maybe it was that he knew he was going to get royally bollocked at home and he might as well go in for a knut as for a galleon. Whatever it was, it made him shove Malfoy to the ground. The man lay sprawled there, with a pig-like flush over his entire face. Harry didn't have enough time for smug satisfaction before Malfoy viciously kicked his legs out from underneath him. It was like being back at school all over again. He never got to get down to brass tacks like this; not as such a powerful political figure. When was the last time he got out on the field?  
  
The years fell away from Harry as he punched Malfoy repeatedly in the mouth and received a swift knee in the groin for his troubles. Lights flashing in his brain, Harry rolled to the side, groaning. Malfoy took the time to get up, baring his bloody teeth in an approximation of a smile, and stood over Harry. He lifted a heavy looking boot and hovered it over Harry's face. This seemed familiar.  
  
“Scared, Potter?” Malfoy asked, breathing heavily.  
  
“You fucking _wish_ , Malfoy,” Harry managed to choke out. He could hear Ginny and Astoria arguing in the background – they'd managed to roll quite a distance in their scuffle - and it seemed to be escalating rapidly. He could only wonder at what Scorpius and Albus thought of them all right now.  
  
Harry would never find out. As he tried to get up, the world exploded.  
  
All around him was the cracking and splintering of wood. He was falling and falling and then abruptly, he wasn't. Harry hovered in the air, catching his breath. His glasses had dropped somewhere in the grass far below him. When Harry looked up through the hole he'd fallen through, all he could make out was a smear of blonde hair and an out-thrust arm. There was a ringing in his ears and Harry realised that some place on his head was bleeding copiously. _'Just as well I gave him that wand back,'_ he thought before succumbing to darkness.  
  
**  
Albus woke with a start, but didn't open his eyes. His whole face throbbed – was his nose broken? – and the spinning in his head threatened to make him pass out again. Something instinctively told him that he wasn't safe here. The drip drip he could hear wasn't at all familiar, not even from the dungeons they had to go to when they had Potions.  
  
“I know you're awake, Albus Severus Potter,” a soft masculine voice said. Albus's eyes snapped open and it was then that he noticed he was bound by robes to a chair as were... Scorpius and both of their mothers? Scanning the dark room, Albus's eyes fell upon the man who sat backwards in a chair, twirling his wand between his fingers. “I've been waiting for you to wake up. We couldn't start the fun while you weren't here with us, and I didn't want to disturb your beauty sleep.” The man was gaunt and his deep black eyes had no spark in them. Albus had no idea who he could be.  
  
“What do you want, Lestrange?” his mum said. Albus froze. A Lestrange – but they were all dead, weren't they? He struggled against his bonds to no avail. The spell that had conjured them had been well cast. Lestrange laughed – a low, hoarse laugh – and Albus regarded him with trepidation. This man must have been in hiding since the final battle. There was no way he would simply let them go as Albus had begun to hope.  
  
“What do I want, Mrs Ginevra... _Molly_ Potter?” Lestrange paused to roll the name on his tongue. “You Weasleys are not very original with naming your spawn, are you? Unlike my fine relative here. Scorpius... that is a name to be _proud_ of. What a shame you were born a Malfoy.” Lestrange stopped talking, choosing to stare into the terrified eyes of Scorpius instead. It didn't look as if he would ever stop and after long minutes, Albus licked his lips and coughed. He wasn't brave like his mum or dad or even his brother and sister. He was scared and he wanted to go home. Maybe talking to Lestrange would end this all quicker.  
  
“What do you want from us?” His voice cracked a number of times and even now, he flushed at the evidence of his adolescence.  
  
“Albus, don't talk to him,” his mum snapped. “He's one of the last Death Eaters.” Well of course he was. Who else would take the wife and son of the Boy-Who-Lived? It had been strange growing up with a title for a father, but Harry Potter was just his dad and right about now he could have done with a hug from him. Lestrange's eyes locked onto him and Albus couldn't look away.  
  
“Did you know that your grandmother, Molly Weasley Senior that is, is a murderer, Albus Severus Potter?” Albus gaped and twisted as much as he could in his bonds to look at his mum. Unlike Lestrange, she wouldn't meet his eyes. His parents tried not to tell him of the darker parts of the war, but he'd never understood why. Why was it better for him to find out things like this from people who couldn't care less about him or his family?  
  
“W-who did she kill?” He couldn't imagine his soft and warm grandma, even if she did have a fiery temper, killing anyone. It made Albus think. What about his dad? He was an Auror and Albus knew they fought dark wizards. And his mum? She'd been really young in the war, though. How many of the faces he looked at when he went to the Burrow were the faces of calculated killers? Albus shivered.  
  
“Did they not teach you about the war at your school, Albus Severus? Scorpius?” When neither of them said anything, Lestrange pointed his wand towards Scorpius's mum and she went rigid, her back trying to arch as she screamed. Lestrange didn't even turn to cast the spell. “I do not like being ignored, boys,” the man said, ending the spell. Mrs Malfoy was breathing heavily and she looked shell-shocked. Albus knew it was selfish and so so bad of him, but he was glad that it hadn't been _his_ mum.  
  
“Rodolphus...” she started. Again, there was no warning before Lestrange cast a spell at her. This time, it was merely a _Silencio_ , but the speed with which it had been cast left Albus fearing for his life.  
  
“Do not presume that any family ties we have are sufficient for you to call me by my given name, Astoria. Blood traitors marrying blood traitors and begetting blood traitors. We have nothing to say to each other.” Lestrange's dark eyes swung back to Albus and Scorpius and Albus could have sworn that he felt _something_ in the back of his head. “I see that your education has been sorely lacking.” He did not elaborate further.  
  
Albus wanted his mum to say something. He wanted his dad to burst in and sweep them all up and make everything better. He wanted to be his dad so he could find some way out of this for them. What use was he, the carbon copy of Harry Potter? He was a Hufflepuff. Hard-working, they called them. Not afraid of hard graft. Well, they were bloody well scared of everything else and that wasn't going to get them anywhere today.  
  
For the first time, Albus noticed that Scorpius's face was scrunched up: his eyes shut tight; his mouth a tight line apart from a quiver every now and again. His eyes were streaming. Albus wasn't a hard man himself, but he'd always thought of Scorpius as more sensitive. It was why they never fought. Neither of them wanted to upset the other. There were so many things that upset Scorpius.  
  
“What do you want, Lestrange?” His mum's face was stormy and Albus could feel magic trying to escape from her. It was crackling around her head and Albus knew that if she had access to a wand right now, Rodolphus Lestrange would be dead. Lestrange didn't react to his mum's shout but looked down at his wand before polishing it lovingly with his sleeve. There was a glimmer building in his eye.  
  
“I believe that what would satisfy me the most is retribution. A tooth for a tooth, as they say,” he said, baring his own crooked and yellow set. “I am just not quite sure whether I want a nose and mouth as well or whether I should go for the whole head.” Albus didn't understand, but things were coming back to him. The Lestranges... Bellatrix Lestrange had been married to this man, hadn't she?  
  
The controlled way in which Rodolphus Lestrange spoke every word was unexpected and Albus was unnerved. This wasn't like the evil wizards from his comics. They always had an elaborate plot where everything was likely to go wrong and the hero could swoop in and save the day. Albus was beginning to realise that this man could and would kill them whenever he decided on the method. Or when he got bored.  
  
Without looking up from his wand, Lestrange spoke in an ugly, dark tone. “You are very much like your father, Scorpius: a snivelling coward with no backbone. I am not surprised they placed you in Hufflepuff. Perhaps that was where your father would have ended up if not for Lucius actually bothering to parent in those days.” Scorpius sobbed. Lestrange sighed.  
  
“Pity. It is strange how plans change. I had originally planned on taking Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy and simply killing them. Potter killed my Lord, Malfoy aided him in his own ineffective way. I would also have the added benefit of hurting the Weasley and Malfoy families irrevocably as if the queens had been taken from a chess board. But now I find that more precious pieces have fallen into my grasp.” Rodolphus looked up now and his eyes were glinting. He ended the spell on Astoria who began screaming unintelligible things. Albus's blood was frozen in his veins.  
  
“Tell me, Ginevra. Astoria. Which two of you are the kings and which two are the sacrificial pawns? Please choose quickly. I haven't had the chance to use my wand on anyone in such a very long time and I'm afraid I might grow impatient and do something... drastic.” Scorpius's mum's voice cut out abruptly as if she'd been silenced again but this time Lestrange hadn't lifted his wand.  
  
“Please, do whatever you want with me. Leave my son alone.” His mum's eyes were red but Albus hadn't seen her crying. He was numb. Everything said echoed in his head strangely. He didn't feel present in himself anymore. How could he when such a surreal thing was happening? He might _die_. He hadn't even done his OWLS yet.  
  
“Now, now, Ginevra. That is _not_ how these things work. I decide what I am going to do and I will not be influenced by blood traitors.” More emotion was coming into Lestrange's voice. He snarled the words, flecks of spit settling on his lips, and his fingers twitched along the pale wood of his wand. Albus didn't think they had very much time. “And yourself, Astoria? What will you do to ensure your son lives?” Albus heard a click as Mrs Malfoy attempted to swallow through a dry throat. She said nothing and Rodolphus laughed out loud.  
  
“Oh, the Slytherin spirit of self-preservation! I forget that you were younger than Mrs Potter here at the time of the battle of Hogwarts. Did you hide in a corner, Astoria? Did you rock and cry until it was over? Do you have the strength to face your fears this time?”  
  
“Astoria,” Ginny shouted, her voice husky with anger. “He is going to _kill_ your son! What kind of mother are you?” The feud between the two families was able to ignite even now and Mrs Malfoy sneered at Albus's mum.  
  
“The kind that doesn't want to die and leave her son to the devices of a dark wizard with a vendetta, you absolutely insufferable Gryffindor _idiot_.” Albus knew their parents didn't get on, but he had never heard Scorpius's mum sound like this before. One way or another, he would never again, would he?  
  
“Much as I am enjoying this altercation, your time has run out,” Rodolphus said, consulting an imaginary clock. Scorpius's mum went first. It was without warning. The light flickered out of her eyes with two words and one green flash of light. She died with her eyes fixed on her son, mouthing something Albus couldn't make out. Her jaw went slack before she finished the sentence. Her head lolled forward and Scorpius really began weeping then, great wrenching sobs that shook his whole body. His eyes were swollen, his skin was mottled and his nose streamed.  
  
“Mum, please don't die. I don't want you to die. Mum, _please_ do something!” Albus only vaguely recognised that the words were coming out of his mouth. Scorpius was hysterically calling for his own mum but she just wasn't waking up.  
  
“Albus, darling,” his mum choked out. “I love you. Be brave.” And she was gone. And Albus's world narrowed to two tunnels and his head was spinning and –  
  
“ _Crucio_.”  
  
And his world exploded with white-hot pain and it was like needles were burrowing under his fingernails and blunt nails were being hammered into his brain and through what remained of his sight, he could see that Scorpius: his best friend Scorpius whom he could do nothing for, who'd just seen his mum die – he had as well though, hadn't he? – was convulsing in his seat. And then the spell ended. Albus could breathe again. He inhaled deeply, the air scratching at his throat and turned wild bloodshot eyes towards Lestrange, who looked delighted. The apathy that had lain like a cloud over his face had disappeared, leaving a reinvigorated man.  
  
“And so I am left with Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy and Albus Severus Potter. The sons of two generations of blood traitors. Wouldn't it be so very interesting to send you back to your fathers... broken? I am very good at torturing. In fact, it may be the only thing I am good at. Did you enjoy your demonstration? Good. I have so much more to show you. Hogwarts hasn't taught you about the war,” Lestrange said, bringing out a pensieve. “That's _good_ ,” he repeated. “It means that I can educate you correctly. I'm very proud of the memories of the war I've... collected over the years.”  
  
**  
“They've found them.” Harry leapt up from his chair and stumbled to the other side of his ornate desk. He had come in to work every day in order to keep up to date on the case they were trying to keep him well away from. He'd resented that Ron had been allowed to participate in the investigation, but it had made sense. Both Harry's wife and son had been taken.  
  
Stricken with grief, he had been unable to concentrate for the length of time required to form coherent plans. Ron, ever the master strategist, had managed to bury his emotions for long enough to get the job done. A grin was already forming on Harry's face, juxtaposing strangely with the deep dark bruises under his eyes. It faded when Harry stopped to register Ron's expression.  
  
“How are they?” he asked, dreading the answer. Found them. Not safe and sound. Not happy. Just found. Breathing? Harry awaited the answer.  
  
“Al and Scorpius Malfoy are alive. They're unconscious and we won't know what's happened to them until either they wake up or Lestrange stops being so tight-lipped.” ' _Lestrange,_ ' Harry noted.  
  
“And Ginny? Astoria?” Harry didn't even know why he had gone to the trouble of asking. Ron would only dodge the subject for one reason.  
  
“They were tied to chairs in the cave Lestrange was hiding in.” Now, Harry could see and hear that Ron had been crying – or trying not to. His voice was thick as he forced the words out. His skin, usually flushed when he was upset had gone the same deathly colour it had when Bill was disfigured; when he found out Fred was dead. “We th-think it was Avada Kedavra.” Ron said. When no more information was forthcoming, Harry walked over to Ron. Each step felt like wading through treacle. They embraced tightly and wordlessly, standing there for a long time.  
  
“Let me interrogate Lestrange,” Harry said, the words bursting out and surprising even him. It was a terrible and fantastic idea and protocol would never allow him to do it.  
  
“You're the boss, Harry. Do what you want.” The words seemed dismissive, but Harry could hear the steel behind them and the unwavering support. Whatever Harry said to Lestrange; whatever Harry did to the Death Eater, Ron would not question it.  
  
In the end, Harry did nothing.  
  
After hearing what the dark wizard had done to the children he wanted to rip him to shreds. But the way the man sat there – eyes blank and dull; face not sullen, simply closed off from the outside world – blind-sided Harry. How could he unleash his anger on a man who had no emotion? In a monotone, Lestrange related how he had repeatedly cast _Crucio_ on the boys and filled their heads with the memories of those he had tortured during the war.  
  
The Healers had no idea of the effect it may have had on them. Their only frame of reference lay in the conditions of the Longbottoms. And why had Lestrange done it? To punish the _blood traitors_. For once in his life, Harry had not been the main motivation for some heinous crime. The Malfoys and the Weasleys were the intended victims of Lestrange and he had hit them hard.  
  
Azkaban was too good for this man with the Dementors no longer there. Harry almost regretted pressuring for their removal before remembering (with a tightening of his chest) his late godfather. They sent Lestrange to the Department of Mysteries. Harry didn't care what they did to him there. And now, it was time to visit his son and his son's best friend in St Mungo's. He could only hope they still recognised him.  
  
They were quiet, but present. Pale, but definitely competent. The Healers were baffled. The two boys should have been driven insane by their ordeal. But by some grace, they were still able to think; to talk. All Harry knew was that he had to pick up the pieces of his life without Ginny. At least he still had his son.  
  
**  
“Albus, _please_. Please stop.” Harry groaned, his head leaning against the solid – locked – door. Accidental wandless magic was volatile but strong, and the definitive way that the door had locked with a click after Albus slammed it shut was telling. Harry's jaw vibrated in time as Albus began to bash his head against the wood, the thuds gaining momentum as time went on.  
  
He would do this until he knocked himself out, Harry knew, and nothing short of taking down the wall in between them (and most of the house in the progress) would stop him. The door would unlock once Albus was unconscious and then Harry would take him to St Mungo's where they would inform him just how much Albus was furthering his head trauma and how long he could keep this up before the damage was irreversible.  
  
It already was. Nothing had been the same since he brought Albus home. They tried to get by without Ginny, the four of them, but it was tough. First Lily had begged to go back to school and then Harry sent James back when Albus became too much for his older brother to handle. He hadn't been surprised when James went without protest. They were too young to cope with this. _Harry_ couldn't come to terms with it all, so how could he expect his children to?  
  
No one knew what to do with the previously happy and _normal_ boy. He had become secretive; furtive. He would break things and hide the shards in places around his room to push under his nail beds when not watched. He would hold his breath for long moments until he began to go purple and only being thumped on the back would make him breathe again. He would whisper about his nightmares at the breakfast table with his eyes screwed closed; the food in front of him growing colder and colder.  
  
Harry had taken an indefinite leave of absence from work. They didn't expect him back. Harry was inclined to agree. He couldn't return, not when he was watching his life fall to pieces around his ears. The banging was stuttering to a halt now. It was earlier than Harry expected.  
  
  
Part Two.  
  
  
 _“Tell me about your dreams, Albus.” His eyes are closed; he cannot open them, but he can still visualise the room he is in. There are two doors. One leads to a bathroom. One leads to the corridor. Along the corridor, there are three more rooms. Two contain people that howl at night. One of them has Scorpius in it. Scorpius has a bigger room than his. Albus does not think that that is fair. But there are more Thestrals in Scorpius's room. He knows that his mum would tell him to be a big boy and not be jealous of his friend. But sometimes his Thestrals want to spread their wings and they can't. That makes them restless. It makes_ him _restless. Restlessness means pain is around the corner.  
  
“I can't wake up.” He tries sometimes. When they compel him to, Albus tries. But he gets tired of trying to wake up. His head hurts all the time. It is easier to wallow in the darkness of his mind.  
  
“Albus, you are awake right now. You are in St. Mungo's. Do you feel awake?”  
  
“I can't wake up,” Albus repeats. He wants to. He knows that when he does; when he opens his eyes, his real mum and dad and Lily and James will be there waiting for him. Not these dream_ ghost _versions of themselves. Not his weeping family and his mother who is six feet under the cold mud. They tried to wake him at her grave, but not even the solid marble was enough to rouse him from his slumber.  
  
“Tell me about your dreams, Albus.”  
  
“There are people screaming and crying. There is darkness and a big skull in the sky and a laughing woman with wild hair. There is fire. Green fire. And my mum isn't there to save me. And there are always Thestrals. Watching.” James warned him about them. Their constant lurking are why he is unable to make himself open his eyes, although he knows he should. If he does, the harbingers of death might cross the barrier from his nightmares into his real life. His mum really will be dead. Albus will not allow her to be dead.  
  
“Are they here right now, Albus?”  
  
“Of course._ I can't wake up.”  
  
**  
Harry watches his son sit for yet another meal. Albus's eyes are closed and Harry has to direct his hands to the correct places. His son will not eat unprompted. If left to his own devices, the plates will all fall and shatter as Albus violently connects his head with the table over and over and over -  
  
**  
 _“Tell me about your dreams, Scorpius.” He will not speak. Speaking is bad. It draws attention to you. It gets you caught. When you are hiding for your life amongst the trees; hiding from those with the masks, you must stay quiet. You cannot breathe his name or they will find you. The only way to hide is to cut out the voice.  
  
“Your friend says that he sees Thestrals, Scorpius. Do you see them?” His eyes dart to the corner of the room, where one of the creatures paces up and down. The flapping of their wings causes a tang of iron to waft through the room. His grey eyes meet the white ones of the Thestral. It stops with a hoof poised in the air; regards him. Scorpius did not want to catch the beast's attention.  
  
“Are you looking at one right now, Scorpius?” It is too late to stop. The Thestral makes a move towards him and he is compelled to act. His hands reach up to his throat and he strokes the skin there, feeling the tremor_ terror _of his heart beat; the ridges of the cartilage; the warm blood pulsing under his pale fingertips. He squeezes, experimentally; tilts his head back. The palms flat against his neck do not feel like his own. There is someone else tightening their hands around his neck. There is someone else gripping; choking. He cannot breathe. It hurts. But he is silent and that is good._  
  
**  
Draco watches from the doorway as his son sits in the ornate bath. He looks small and vulnerable. He _is_ small and vulnerable. There are bruises and burns all over him. Draco is taking him back to the hospital as soon as – oh. Draco moves forward; his wrist is already flexed and his wand is in hand. Scorpius has submerged himself again.  
  
**  
 _He is Rodolphus. He knows that much is still true, although for how much longer, he is ignorant. They took him deep, deep into the Ministry and they left him here to rot. As time goes by, bits of him fall away. Here, with only a soft beat that reminds him of a heart freshly ripped from a body, he is no longer a Lestrange. He is not a pureblood. He is not a Death Eater. He is not a torturer. But he is still a man. He still loves.  
  
Floating in his mind, he thinks of Bellatrix. Their introduction to each other was brief. They married because it was the right thing to do. But how could he _ not _love her? Her madness was her sanity. Her Lord was her life. He was an afterthought but being able to bask in her presence... They had no children. Rodolphus knows that had they, he would surely have suffocated them as they slept. He shared Bellatrix with her -_ his _\- master. Could he not retain some part of her majesty?  
  
He remembers her being ripped away by someone not worthy to speak her name. He remembers escaping and the fury and the lonely nights and the people he killed to fill the void. They did not. He feels fulfilled, now. He dreams of red hair red with blood and blank green eyes. He dreams of Bellatrix's laughter and her wild black hair. Sometimes he cries.  
  
He is still Rodolphus, and he still loves._  
  
**  
“Potter.”  
  
“Malfoy.” Neither Harry nor Draco wanted to make the first move. Childhood enemies, they had never quite been able to move past the vague enmity that pervaded their relationship after all was said and done. Harry remembered that it had been better for a time. He remembered standing on a platform sending his son to Hogwarts and seeing Malfoy there. He remembered nodding at the man and feeling pleased later that night that he was a grown adult man who no longer held onto childish grudges. He wondered where that man was now. Perhaps he was to make a reappearance, now that the sons they had waved goodbye to were lost in the mires of their minds. Albus would have wanted it that way.  
  
“Look-” They both spoke at the same time, and both fell silent. Harry sighed. “Malfoy, we need to work together on this. The Healers can't do anything. They've said as much. We're going to need to-”  
  
“Potter, I didn't come to you for a run-down on the situation which, although it may shock and amaze you to discover, I am up-to-date on. I Flooed here because my son is insane, my wife is dead and _I do not know what to do_.” The pitch of Malfoy's voice rose and rose as he spoke. Harry bristled, although it was more of an instinct to do so. What could he say to that? He had ended a war, but even then he had not been able to do it by himself. And this war did not play by the rules. The villain was defeated but the demons remained.  
  
“And how do you expect me to fix it all? Lestrange is dead for all we know-” Harry wished he'd never let him go. With every fibre of his being, he hated him. But the man was out of reach, wasn't he? Hermione, past her bouts of furious tears, thought it was a good thing. She didn't want him to become a murderer. He was known for it: the legendary 'soft touch'. Always bringing in Death Eaters and dark wizards alive to face justice, that was what he was good at. Something stayed his hand each time he reached for that part inside himself; that part that could cast the Killing Curse.  
  
They call him noble; forgiving. Harry couldn't agree with them. He thought of his mother's cry; of Sirius's fall. Harry thought there was another pain entirely in knowing that the cold stone walls of Azkaban are to be all you see, day in and day out, for the rest of your life.  
  
“-and if the Healers couldn't fix the Longbottoms and they say that our kids' minds are completely broken in much the same way, what am I supposed to do?”  
  
“I don't know, all right? You're the Boy-Who-Lived! Make it better somehow. Please.” Malfoy's bottom lip quivered and his eyes were closed. Harry hated the sight of eyelids now. When Albus woke from his deep slumbers, sometimes Harry would catch a flash of his bright green eyes. But they would always flutter shut, leaving Harry with the shadows that grew deeper and darker every day.  
  
“Malfoy, I can't.” The last time that Harry saw Malfoy cry, there was ice-cold water and Harry offered him blood. This time, there was a warm crackling fire. Harry offered him a firm hand on his shoulder as he wept, the tears coursing their way in turn down his own burning cheeks.  
  
**  
 _It is strange how easily the Department of Mysteries allows them to enter the Love Chamber, which Dumbledore once told Harry was ever-locked. When they arrive, the door is wide open as if their coming was anticipated; expected. It is curious when they see Lestrange once more. The man has been changed in some esoteric way by the Chamber, but Harry is a changed man as well. His heart aches when he sees Draco lift his wand. It wavers, as Harry knows it will. Draco is not a killer.  
  
When Sirius died, Harry thought that the fury he felt was unparalleled. Bellatrix Lestrange showed him that he was not yet there. It is another Lestrange that has taught him true hatred. The Chamber hums as he raises his wand; the curse ready to fall from his lips.  
  
Harry does not know if he is surprised when he feels the tremor in his hand. He stares at it. Why does his flesh betray him?  
  
“_ Kill me, _” Lestrange says. Is this some kind of cruel test? The air in the room is cloying; heavy. Is it encouraging him or is it dissuading him?  
  
Harry cannot do it._  
  
**  
Malfoy paced up and down the length of his study and Harry was content, in lieu of a better word, to sit and watch him. Malfoy's eyes were puffy and bloodshot. Like Harry, he had not slept for days. Leaving either of the boys unattended for even a moment had dire consequences. Even now, they had a House Elf watching them sleep. If they awoke, Harry and Malfoy would be told.  
  
Eventually, Malfoy began to stumble. An empty glass bottle sat on his desk and Malfoy was so thin from not eating that Harry thought the alcohol must have gone straight to his head. He collapsed onto the chair next to him and leaned back, resting his head.  
  
Malfoy's head was far too close to Harry's; every breath he made rustled Harry's hair. If Harry turned his head, he fancied he would be able to count each of Draco's lashes. The positioning should have been awkward. But Harry was lonely for fuck's sake and they'd already been through so _much_. Why not? Why couldn't he? Decades ago, they had been on opposite sides of a different war. They had bickered and then they had fought. Months ago, he'd hated this man. Now, what was there? Two dead wives. Two lost boys. Was he to be able to take nothing good from this?  
  
Harry made the decision to turn his head only to find grey eyes fixated on him.  
  
**  
 _They have been best friends for years. They have shared every important moment of their lives since they first sat upon that stool in the Great Hall of Hogwarts and were sorted, much to the surprise of every person present, into Hufflepuff._ 'The Malfoy Boy,' _they whisper. It is a perversion of a title. Scorpius knows what they think of his dad. Even though he had tried so_ hard _to better himself after the war, even though he scolded Scorpius's grandfather every time he used the word 'Mudblood' (although Scorpius also knew it wasn't with perfect sincerity), they would never forgive him. And when Scorpius asks him why he believed –_ believes? – _such stupid things, his dad never tries to convince him that he was –_ is? _– correct. He tells Scorpius to follow his heart. He tells Scorpius to always think for himself.  
  
And Albus. The vast majority of his family are in Gryffindor. There are a few Ravenclaws, but that is expected from children like Rose, spawned from mothers – _ mum, why are you gone? _– like Hermione Weasley. There were jokes of Slytherin, but Hufflepuff... Scorpius knows that Albus's family look down on him for it. They think he is a little slow; a little pathetic. Scorpius thinks that Albus is so_ strong _. Much stronger than he is.  
  
They have shared their lives and isn't it time they moved on? Scorpius wants to escape. He wants to fly away on a Thestral with Albus and maybe they can find their mums. He knows that Thestrals only appear when you've seen someone die. He bets that they know the way. The next time they focus their blank and staring eyes on him and his throat closes up; the next time that Albus hears their shrieks and squeezes his eyes tighter shut, Scorpius knows that they will follow those grim horses wherever they may lead them._  
  
**  
Harry knew that it made no sense. Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy in a relationship? But if one could call teeth clacking kisses and deep scratches from clenching – grasping for a lifeline – fingers in between soul-rending sobs a relationship, then that was what it was. It was unthinkable. If not for their shared tragedy, the whole Wizarding World would be up in arms. It reminded Harry of his second year. Whispers followed him whenever he ventured out from behind the safety of a locked door. In time, it became easier to never go outside.  
  
The Weasleys were beginning to move on; to forget their lost daughter and their broken son. Harry had nothing left to heal. He didn't feel as if this – miasma – would ever fade. It weighed on him. It crushed his soul a little more with every day. He had a bleeding hole in his chest that he tried to dam with memories of sunny afternoons and Quidditch-  
  
James had his Invisibility Cloak. Perhaps Harry could make a new one from broken dreams and what remained of his sanity. He'd like to stay under it for the rest of his life.  
  
Harry wasn't deluded. If _this_ hadn't happened, he would happily have gone on hating Malfoy. Draco. He was a vile and stuck-up blood supremacist coward, no matter how much he pretended to redeem himself. Lucius Malfoy stayed quiet now, but when he saw Harry in his home, he always had a sneer to spare. Harry and Draco did not converse past shallow things. Their grief was too much to laugh together. They would do anything to pass the time; to stop the thoughts from invading for just a moment longer. From hands on shoulders to hands on cheeks to hands on bodies. It seemed like an easy progression.  
  
It seemed easier to begin calling him Draco. They fumbled together like the virgins they were and when Draco fucked him the first time there was one _glorious_ moment when Harry forgot everything. They had no voices. They closed their eyes.  
  
**  
 _If she knew then what she did now, would she have done anything differently?_ This _is the question that Molly asks herself every day. She cannot escape from it, despite Arthur's assurances that she could not have predicted the future. But Molly feels it is a mother's duty to think of the consequences of her actions. When she joined the Order of the Phoenix, it was knowing that she might not be there to see her children grow up. She wonders what Ginny's last thoughts were when she sacrificed herself that Albus might live. As she stands in the kitchen, drying the same plate over and over, Molly re-imagines the scenario._  
  
This time, _Molly hesitates. Ginny dies. Albus, Lily and James are never born. Molly lives with the guilt her entire life._  
  
This time, _Molly stuns Bellatrix. Ginny is saved. The woman escapes in the chaos and murders a dozen more families before she is captured. It is not the best outcome, but Molly's selfishness is sated._  
  
This time, _Molly throws herself in front of the curse. This is the option her mind shies from. But she is a Gryffindor. Brave. At least, this is what Molly tells herself when she wonders whether her murder of Bellatrix Lestrange was a just or an evil deed._  
  
 _Arthur leads her away from the sink. His voice is strong and steady; he is her rock. If he were to be taken from her, her rage would surely know no boundaries. Maybe there is something that runs in all pure blood. Some kind of poison that makes them all killers.  
  
Tomorrow, Molly will repeat her daily routine and again she will ask herself: _ If she knew then what she did now, would she have done anything differently?  
  
**  
The boys share a room now. There is no need to keep them apart. They lie still, heavily dosed on Dreamless Sleep to stop them from indulging their suicidal tendencies. Asleep, yet they still gravitate towards each other, both teetering on the edges of their beds. Their hearts race when they are away from one another. It is easier – less painful – to keep them together.  
  
Lily and James sit in the waiting room outside the ward. Their father meets them there. Each of them holds a stone cold mug of tea. The children are thin and wan. Harry does not know what to do.  
  
“Dad, Al woke up for a little while today,” James says, swallowing heavily. His hair is a mess and his hands are shaking. “He's getting worse. They both are.” Harry hugs his children to him closely and sends them off with their grandmother. Molly has lost so much weight since this all began. She is unrecognisable. They all are. Harry does not think he will allow the children back again.  
  
Once Lily and James have left, Harry catches Draco's eye from across the room and the man stares at him, his mouth set in a grimace. What they have discussed does not bear thinking about.  
  
“You are not a killer,” he says later after a long silence, taking Draco's wand. He doesn't believe it's a cowardly thing. Not really. How could he, when he wrestles with the knowledge that he turned away from his son's torturer, his wife's _murderer_ , leaving the man unscathed.  
  
“Neither are you,” Draco shoots back. “We're pathetic.” He gives Harry a twisted smile. There is a clock ticking in the background. They tell him that the passage of time will soothe his woes. Harry listens to the _tick_. To the _tock_. He feels no better.  
  
Harry wants to rage. He wants to scream and cry. But he has no tears left, for now. He wants to kill. Or does he? Are Draco and he broken? To protect their ideals; the ones they love, many are driven to murder. He thinks of Molly, of Bellatrix, of Rodolphus, of Lucius; Snape. Of Voldemort. He thinks of Draco on the Astronomy Tower and then of Dumbledore – his flawed idol – who could not cast the most final of curses against Grindelwald. Is it really so bad to be like him? Whatever the answer, he is in good company. Draco the not-coward: the man who shares his misery.  
  
Harry is too old; has seen too much for his heart to be pure. It is black. It is shrivelled. He thinks of Albus and how he has failed him. He could not protect him or his mother. How he could not take revenge. And now, he cannot give his son what he wants. He cannot be the one to end his suffering. The guilt digs hooks and claws and teeth into his soul.  
  
Harry fidgets with Draco's wand, twirling it through his fingers and remembering a darker – but in a way, better – time. There are four doors on this white corridor. Two lead to people that howl at night. One is empty. And this one... Harry shuts his eyes. Like some kind of muggle horror, a horse-like figure materialises in the blackness of his mind.  
  
Harry's head hurts.


End file.
